


Decisions in the Dark

by mswyrr



Category: Doctor Who
Genre: Abduction, Alien Biology, Alien Culture, Alien Planet, Alien Technology, Aliens, Amnesia, Captivity, Deception, Drama, F/M, Grief, Loss, Love, Memories, Trust
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-07
Updated: 2010-05-07
Packaged: 2017-10-09 08:48:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/85295
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mswyrr/pseuds/mswyrr
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An AU, set prior to "Dalek," wherein Rose loses a little innocence, the Doctor loses some experience, and the Universal Archive gains eighteen volumes of war history.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Decisions in the Dark

**Author's Note:**

> Much thanks to kali, my primary beta, and to warinbabylon and steviesun, for their objectivity and advice.

* * *

For the Doctor, waking up strapped down, tied up, or bound to a wicked contraption was Situation Normal. No reason to panic; it didn't even rate a physiological reaction. He was calm. His muscles weren't tense. His breathing didn't hitch.

He kept his eyes closed, and listened.

He could hear ultrasonic pulses. They were coming from at least five individuals. Echocommunication. When he heard it, he couldn't help smiling. He knew this species! He'd met them before. Their language had a distinct lilt. Nice people, bit stuffy.

He opened his eyes and saw what he expected: darkness.

The problem with talking to an echocommunicating species was that most ears, even excellent ones like his, weren't quite sensitive enough to pick up the nuances of conversation. Translation devices could bridge the gap, but wherever he was, it was beyond the reach of the TARDIS' telepathic field. If he had his sonic screwdriver, he could set it to emit a pattern of pulses for rudimentary communication, but that wasn't possible. His hands weren't even free.

Best hope they had their own translation device.

"Hello!" he called out brightly.

He felt their attention immediately. Sonic pulses were directed at him. He detected at least eight individuals. They were "looking" him over.

He smiled again; it couldn't hurt.

"Have a translator?"

A moment later, he got his answer.

"Honored Lord," the monotone translation device addressed him.

"I go by Doctor," he replied, bemused.

"Doctor," the device began again, "are you allergic to any known medical compound?"

"Oi! That's personal! Introduce yourselves first," he chided.

"We offer our apologies, Doctor. We are a research collective of Rirrii. Our specialty is the collection and dissemination of data pertaining to the history of the universe."

"Rirrii? Thought so. Nice to meet you! You've got a fantastic library system."

"You honor us," the monotone voice said. There was a pause. "Are you allergic to any known medical compound?" the device asked again, as if the Rirrii controlling it had been too lazy to type in a new sentence, and simply hit replay.

"Still too personal, collective. _I_ get to ask a couple questions first. I recall your people were far more polite the last time I met you. They didn't fasten me to a chair."

"You may ask your questions."

"Right--there's a few. Hope you've got pad and pen handy. Where's Rose? Why did you take us? Why're you so keen to know my drug allergies? How'd a bunch of scholars get caught up in kidnapping? Do your mothers know what you're up to? Better yet, do your_ professors_?"

There was a long pause as his questions were translated into their language, considered, and a reply formed. When it came, it didn't exactly impress.

"What is rose?"

He sighed. "_Who_ is Rose. Rose is a who, not a what. She's a girl. Human. Female. My companion. She was with me in your holding cell..."

Long pause.

"Rose remains in our cell," came the reply. And then, as if they really were working off a ticklist, they answered each question in the order it had been asked. "We took you because you are an important artifact of universal history. We need to know how your body will react to our medical procedures. Your acquisition was part of our duty to collect and disseminate historical data. Your final questions are impertinent."

Short pause.

"Are you allergic to any known medical compound?"

He frowned. An artifact, was he? He didn't like the sound of that. He shifted, rolling his shoulders and flexing his hands, testing the strength of their restraints under the guise of having a little stretch. They weren't as inexperienced at abduction as he'd thought; there was very little give to the bonds.

"You're rogues," he postulated, ignoring their question. "Kidnapping isn't approved Rirrii data collection. Your people would never stand for it. What are you after?"

"You are mistaken. We operate under the policies of our people. You must answer our questions. We cannot ensure your safety if you do not cooperate. We would regret harming you."

"But you'd still do it. Whatever procedure you need my medical information for, you'll do it anyway, even if I leave you ignorant. That right?"

"Yes."

"You'd risk killing me with the Rirrii equivalent of Aspirin... for what? What do you think you'll achieve? I can't believe your people would approve."

"It is obvious that you do not know our people as well as you believe, but we know you. Your death would not be permanent."

They knew. But how sure were they?

"You're insane," he bit out.

"You would regenerate."

"I'd _what_?"

"You are a Time Lord."

"I've no idea what you're on about."

"You are a Time Lord. Your biology matches no other known species."

"Certain of that, are you?"

"We are."

"How's that? How'd you happen to know about people that don't exist? Did you dream it? Visit a psychic, maybe?"

"Before the final act of the Time War, our people had the foresight to preserve records of their timeline within a space/time pocket," if it wasn't impossible for a simple translation devices to emote, he would have said the voice sounded smug. But it was _simple_. Primitive, even. They were children. Bookish children; bright and curious, but children nonetheless.

"Right. If you know so much about Time Lords, you'd know that they have only thirteen lives. That's twelve regenerations. How'd you know I'm not on my last? Or second to last? How many mistakes can you afford to make before you lose your precious artifact? You willing to risk that?"

"It is necessary."

"Why?"

"Our ancestors' existence was wiped out before they could complete their task. Our information is fragmentary. We can retrieve clarifying data from your mind."

"You got the technology for that?"

"Yes."

"But not sophisticated enough not to leave me bleeding out my ears, is it?"

"We will limit our retrieval to memories of the Time War. Once we have them, you and your companion will be released."

"And what happens to Rose if you kill me with your messing about?"

"She would be released with our apologies."

"Apologies, eh? You might want to hide behind something when you try that out on her. Tell me, have you thought to ask? Give me a cuppa and a comfy chair and say 'Doctor, sir, won't you tell us your war stories'?"

"Your stories would be unverifiable. We seek objective truth."

"You expect to find _objective truth_? In chaotic memories of war?"

"The raw data will be analyzed, compared with current information, and filtered. The truth will remain."

"You've got an awfully high opinion of yourselves."

"On the contrary, we are servants. We struggle to inform the people of the universe. They deserve the truth of their history."

"No," he said firmly. "It's not their universe. It's not _your _universe. You're only connected to it by documents that shouldn't exist. It's nothing to do with you!"

"Doctor," the voice said. "We have answered your questions. Will you answer ours?"

"No."

At first, he thought they weren't going to reply. That they'd decided to sulk. Minutes passed. Their sonic pulses came closer. He felt something smooth brush against his face. A metal "crown" was slid over his head. Then the flat voice came again. It said, "We will do all within our power to ensure your safety."

Then came the pain.

There was something wrong with his head. It felt like--he took in the sensation--like a dented-in egg, just before the innards oozed out. Like juicy fluids under pressure, sharp shell bits held together by a transparent membrane. The hurt of it was stunning. It kept him quiet, though he wanted to give a deep groan. A pitiful whimper. A shrill _bloody fuck_. A scream.

And it tickled. His head, about to break open, tickled. Something was moving over it, feather-light, kindly avoiding the dent. The dent. The dent. Was it a dent? Or dent-like spot? What felt like a dent, but wasn't?

At least the insides were in, he thought. Then the feather-light touch brushed the dent, and became a hammer. The instant the hammer struck, he saw a bright yolk-splatter behind his eyelids, and then nothing.

The next time he woke, he knew it was fingers. They weren't tickling or hammering anymore. They rested lightly against his crown. Likely human fingers, because there were five of them that he could feel, and they were attached to someone who smelled like Rose, so he assumed.

The dent had got better, he noticed. The pain had subsided. Its absence felt like a cool breeze. Like toes curled in long grass. Wonderful. It made him adventurous. He reached for the tickling hand and its cruel fingers.

He caught it easily. Ah-ha! He felt around on it, verifying his theory. Yep. They were Rose's digits. He could feel her beaded thumb-ring on her hot little human hand. He smiled delicately, happy, but not ready to disturb his head just yet.

She moved a little, jostling him. "Doctor?" she whispered.

He winced. The dent was better, near gone, but his head felt fragile. He didn't want to know what speaking would do to it. He gave her hand a squeeze by way of reply.

She gave a choked sigh, and resettled his head gently. He felt a zipper press against his cheek, and supposed with some amusement that his head, useless thing, was lying in her lap. Typical. It would happen just when he could least appreciate soft thighs supporting his cranium, fingers in his hair, and all.

His smile fell when he smelt her tears, and heard her sniffle. His hearts did a little clench. He rubbed her fingers reassuringly, but when he realized that he couldn't see, he wasn't able to put talking off any longer.

"Rose," he slurred. "Isst," he paused, swallowing. "Is it dark here?"

Did that dent send me blind, Rose?

"Black as pitch," she confirmed mildly. She started up stroking his head again with her other hand. A minute passed that way. She didn't offer anything more.

"Rose?"

"Yeah?"

"Do you know where _here_ is? Sounds funny."

"Oh, we're on a ship, I guess -- You figured we were on a ship. And the funny sound's the way the room echoes, you said. It's made for it. Echoes, I mean. I can't hear 'em, but you noticed. You said it's 'cause of your _superior ears_. Sounded all offended when I asked if that was 'cause they stick out so," she said, and went rambling on about conversations he couldn't remember in a kind, bedtime-story voice, like she was recalling a happy family trip to the shore. Better times. All the while she stroked his hair in the same pattern. Stroke-stroke-stroke, gentle scratch, stroke. Stroke-stroke-stroke, gentle scratch, stroke. Stroke-stroke-stroke...

He felt like a cat. And in the midst of growing fear for her--Was she in shock? Or drugged? Had she hit her head? He thought he was going to have a bald patch if she didn't leave off.

"I said all that?" he asked. _And_, he added silently, _don't remember a word of it?_

Her hands stilled. "You're awake?"

What a question! He struggled to sit up, damning his head. "We've been _injured_, taken aboard a strange ship, and planted in a dark, echoey room. Hardly the time for a kip!"

"You can sit up! You're making sense, and you're _grouching_\-- Doctor," she enthused, "you're all here!" She reached over and hugged him.

"Yep." He patted her back. "One grouchy, mobile Doctor, all parts together and capable. How'd we get here?"

"What do you remember last?"

He thought back past the blank spots. "Zenek 4. We'd stopped off for spare parts."

"'Only planet advanced enough to equip a TARDIS,'" she quoted.

"After a little jiggery-pokery," he amended.

"Yeah. There were these aliens..."

"That narrows it down," he muttered.

"Hush, you. They got us coming back from the shops. I woke up here. You were already up, trying the door. Told me we'd been taken by this weird _echolocating _species, the Rirrii."

"Rirrii? Ah, yeah. Great hearing, no eyes, highly academic society. What'd they want us for?"

"_You_," she said, and smoothed his jacket nervously. "They wanted you. We couldn't get the door open, or any vents, and then they came and took you," her hands gripped his lapel. "I couldn't do anything to stop it. Nothing. Couldn't even _see_ you. And when they brought you back later, you weren't... well. They'd done something to your head. You said they'd let us go once they had what they wanted. That it'd be over soon. But it wasn't, they just keep taking you, and you kept getting worse."

She leaned her head against his chest, still gripping his lapels.

"You're so much better now," she whispered. "Maybe it's over."

"How long has it been?"

"Ten days. Maybe not days, I dunno how often they -- this is the tenth time they've brought you back."

He was curious what the Rirrii had got up to with his head, but whatever they'd done wasn't incapacitating at the moment, so the first priority had to be escape. There'd be time enough for prodding the gray matter later.

He gave Rose's back a quick rub and a pat, and turned toward the wall.

"Right," he said, feeling along it. "Synthetic material, textured for acoustics, of course. The door seam should be 'round here somewhere," he muttered.

"You tried that before."

"Yeah? Well, if I let that stop me, I'd never do anything," he replied, turning to her. "It'd help if you knew where the door's at. Keep me from feeling up the walls, at least. Can you point it out?"

"How'd you know I'm not pointing it out right now?" she quipped.

"Cheeky," he muttered. Before he could snap at her about priorities, he felt her hand grasp his elbow and slide down to his wrist. Gripping it firmly, she lifted it, directing it to the left. "Last time I saw--ah, _heard_ the door," she said, pointing with his arm, "it was over there."

"Fantastic," he said, nearly leaping over to it.

What he found wasn't encouraging. There weren't any hinges or a handle on the interior of the door. It was flush with the walls, covered in the same textured material, and nearly undetectable except for the seams along the sides, the top and the bottom. It didn't so much as groan under his considerable efforts.

He frowned at it and gave it a good swift kick, since nobody could see.

"Ah," he called out, trying to sound undeterred. "You said something about vents?"

She sighed, came over to him, and repeated the process of using his arm to point out what he was looking for. It became apparent that she was very well aquatinted with the lay-out of the room.

He imagined that she may have ran her hands over these walls, looking for a way out many, many times already.

He got the feeling he was being humored, but kept up a steady commentary, just to make it sound like something was getting done.

After a minute or two, she said, "Your talking to make me feel better isn't helping. You keep repeating yourself, saying things you've said before, 'cause you don't remember. It's... creepy. Could you stop?"

He laid his head against the wall, sighed.

"Awfully egocentric," he said. "How do you know I'm not talking to make _me_ feel better?"

"Oh. Were you?"

"Sort of."

"Sorry. But there's nothing we can do."

"I know."

"It's no help trying then, is it? Come over here?"

He sighed again, and followed the sound of her voice. "Right, I'm here," he said when he got to her, just to let her know.

"I know. Can I have your coat?" she asked. When he handed it to her, she went on, "It's like the blind, you know, how they can tell who you are from the sound of your walking or the way your clothes rustle, yeah? I know where you are 'cause of your boots. They're loud, if you listen."

She reached out for his hand, and pulled him down to sit next to her. She folded his coat and settled it between them and the wall, and laid her head against his chest.

"This is better, isn't it?" she asked, and he could feel her breathing and the comforting vibrations of her voice-box.

"Feel like I should be getting something done."

"Keep trying, if you want to," she said, yawning. "I'm going to get some sleep."

"Haven't you had enough of that, locked away all this time?"

She snuggled closer. "You kept me awake," she mumbled, drifting off.

He stared ahead into the darkness. He felt her breathing pattern change.

He now knew why she'd seemed so resigned. She'd been here for over a week. It'd only been a few minutes for him, and the thought of passively waiting for whatever their captors decided had already settled heavily over him.

It felt like giving up, but he didn't bother doing another touch-survey of their prison. He knew she was right. Anyway, she was sleeping comfortably now, and it wouldn't do to jostle her. Let her have her rest. There was something lulling about the heat she gave off, the sound of her respiration, the feel of her rib cage expanding and contracting as she breathed. He was tired. It had come on so quickly...

Suddenly, he realized what was happening.

Those vents.

They could easily be used to release a simple, odorless gas into the air that would put them both to sleep.

He wondered if they used this method every time. Had she known what was happening? When the sleepiness started to come over her, did she always invite him over for a final cuddle before whatever came next?

How many times had he held her like this?

More importantly, he thought, just before blacking out, why hadn't she told him?

He came awake slowly to the feel of somebody rifling his trouser pockets.

He heard Rose's voice above him, cursing quietly. She was bent over him, breathing out heated puffs of carbon dioxide.

And _rifling his pockets._

For what? Did she need his TARDIS key?

That _was_ the TARDIS he felt nearby, wasn't it?

He resisted the urge to frown, or open his eyes just yet.

When she found whatever she was looking for, she leaned back, and he could see brightness through his eyelids.

He heard water. He wiggled his fingers beside him -- he was laying on sand.

They were out of the cell, then. And probably back on Zenek 4.

He peered out from beneath his eyelashes.

Definitely Zenek 4, he thought, opening his eyes. A cloudless sky stretched out above him, shaded from pale green around the sun to blue-green near the horizon. One of the planet's great lakes lay several meters away. There were gray sand dunes all around, and small, dark blue plants all over, too; indigenous ground cover with tiny purple flowers.

Rose was sitting next to him on the sand alongside the TARDIS. They were roughly fifteen kilometers from one of the planet's major cities. He could see it in the distance, floating serene above the water, reflecting the mid-day sun.

He smiled at the sight, and worked himself into a sitting position. His jacket was laying in the grass beside him. He picked it up and pulled it on.

"Nice day for it."

"Yeah?"

"Wouldn't want to be dropped off unconscious in the middle of a storm, would you?"

"No," she said. "It's good to see the sun again. Feel it, you know? Warms you all the way through."

She closed her eyes and turned her face toward the sun with a smile. Her clothes were in disarray, and her hair was a stringy, ten-days-unwashed mess pulled back tight in a pony-tail, but she looked happy.

He got up and stretched, stepping over to the TARDIS. He reached into his pocket and found the key where it always was. Interesting. He slid it into the lock, opened the doors, and stepped back.

"How 'bout a picnic?" he called back to her.

She glanced over at him, shading her eyes with her hand. "What's that?"

"You hungry?"

"Yeah..."

"So am I. We could eat out here."

"Sure. What have we got?"

"Dunno. I'll have a look."

"Want help?"

He waved her off. "You stay there. I'll be back."

He got out a plaid blanket that reminded him of something he'd worn once. They laid on it beside the placid lake, having a light lunch of bread, fruit and cheese.

In the comfortable silence, he took the opportunity to poke around his mind, trying to figure out what the Rirrii had done.

After a few minutes, he found a distressingly large emptiness, spanning about a hundred years. When his thoughts reached it, he felt like a man stumbling upon a cavern hidden in the underbrush. He lost his mental footing, fell into the dark. He visibly swayed with the vertigo of it, and felt Rose's hands supporting his arms.

"You all right?" she asked.

It passed quickly. "Yes," he said, giving her a smile, and encouraging her to go back to eating.

"This the way it always goes?" she asked a minute later, gesturing vaguely with a slice of green apple.

He lifted his brows. "Lunch?"

"No. Travel. Seeing the universe. This is the way, isn't it? People pushing you around. Hurting you," she said, and bit the apple slice in half decisively.

"And my companions. Yes. Sometimes."

"Well, I got off easy this time."

"Having second thoughts?"

"You know me better than that, Doctor," she said, giving him a chastising look. "I'm having thoughts of what I'd like to do to the bastards who tortured you."

"Vengeance? Thought I knew you better than _that_. And torture's a heavy word. I'm not sure the Rirrii meant me harm. They're--"

"Librarians and scholars! The salt of the universe. I know, I heard it before. But they saw what they were doing to you, they knew, and they kept on. How do you explain that?"

"I don't have enough information to explain anything," he said reasonably. "You know more about it than I do. You tell me, what happened?"

"I--it. It was," she began, then fell silent. She stared at him a minute, then her eyes tracked off over the scenery. "I don't know what to say," she said finally. "What do you want to know?"

"Everything."

"Okay," she said, gripping her hands together in her lap. "Okay. When they'd take you, you'd only be gone an hour or two. Then they'd leave you with me for what felt like a day or more. I don't know why."

"Recovery time, probably."

"Yeah, maybe. Anyway, you were in a lot of pain. Sometimes you'd just lay on the floor, hurting. When it was better, you'd talk to me, but you didn't always know who I was. Seemed like you'd just start to come out of it, and they'd take you away again. It was worst when you'd scream. Or when you thought I was somebody you didn't like. Then you'd yell.

"I could help, though. If I'd talk or sing something, you'd calm down eventually." She met his eyes. "I took care of you," she said earnestly.

It sounded like a justification. Of what, he didn't know. Of the things she hadn't told him, and wasn't telling him now, maybe, or of taking things from his pockets.

Tears had begun to slide down her cheeks, though her face was clear. In her eyes there was a weary blankness. He sidled up closer to her on the blanket, and put his arm around her. Embracing her. She leaned into him.

"Do you know why?" he asked. "What they were after?"

She ducked her head. "No," she said, her face hidden in his jacket.

He nodded, stroking her arm. He was sure that she was lying. He didn't have any evidence, but he knew her well enough, even if he didn't know her as well as he'd thought.

It stung.

"What did I say?" he asked, probing further.

"Lots of things," she said vaguely. "I don't know. You weren't always speaking English."

"What else did I speak? Were there any other languages you recognize?"

"No. There was this one--I think it was one--that you spoke the most. It was very pretty, but strange, like I couldn't hear half the sounds."

He mentally blocked the TARDIS' telepathic connection, and gave her a short recitation in Gallifreyan. Something he recalled from grammar school. Long enough and simple enough for her to hear the language.

She looked up at him, listening. "That's it," she said, when he finished.

Nearly a hundred years. Years when the main language he'd spoken was Gallifreyan. It couldn't be from before he left, those memories were intact. Aside from what was missing of the last ten days, there was only that one gaping space, that carved out bleakness, from some time during his eighth and early ninth regenerations. What had been there?

"What you described sounds like the effects of primitive memory retrieval -- a technique that destroys what it retrieves, causing vivid flashbacks as the memories degrade."

"Sounds like brain damage."

"It is. It's _very _primitive. It was good that they limited themselves to one nexus of memories. If they'd taken too much, or tried to pick and choose from different areas, I'd--"

"Be dead?"

"Something worse. Which is why I don't think they meant to hurt me. They did everything to prevent it."

"Yeah. Everything _except_ not doing it in the first place."

"I'm not saying they're innocent, but they didn't have to let us go. I've got some juicy tidbits in my head, they could have had them all. What do you think," he wondered aloud. "Of all the events I've experienced, they could only take one. Which? What would interest them the most?"

He remembered telling Rose about a Time War, shortly after their first trip together. He'd told her that his planet had been destroyed in a war he didn't have any other memories of.

"I don't know," she said.

"I see." He looked into her eyes, and again blocked the TARDIS. "Why are you lying to me?" he asked.

She smiled at him, "You're speaking it again."

"Was I? Sorry. Force of habit."

"It's okay. It's beautiful."

"Yes." _It was._

He had a cruel impulse to ask her if she wanted to visit his home world, where she could hear it spoken all over. Instead, he removed his arm from around her, and started taking up their picnic things, preparing to leave.

Whatever had been in her pocket was once again in his.

After Rose left to bathe, he pulled whatever she'd been hiding out of his coat pocket, and inspected it. It was a simple data orb. Looked like Rirrii manufacture. He opened one of the console's analysis bays, placed the data orb inside, closed the lid.

The data they'd taken had been translated into plain-text, translatable into any known language. The technology for storing real live memories was beyond them.

He was scanning the opening lines, confirming his suspicions, when he heard her step on the catwalk behind him. He turned to face her. She stopped dead, her eyes darting between him and the open screen. He crossed his arms.

"You've been a naughty girl," he observed.

She didn't reply. She had the look of a person watching a train derail.

"You're ignorant," he said plainly. "I knew that when I picked you up. There's lots of things you don't know, 'cause you haven't been told. That's easy to fix; just takes information. I never thought you were_ stupid _or malicious. Was I wrong? Or did you really think you had a good reason for this?"

She unfroze. "I did," she said earnestly.

"Did you? Well, come on then. Share with the class!" he said expansively, and then gave her a hard look. "No more secrets."

"I thought... it'd be best."

He hoped she could see how unimpressed he was by that.

"And you would know, would you?"

"Those memories were hurting you long before the Rirrii came along. I thought that--"

"That you'd toss whatever you didn't like about me off in a bin somewhere?"

"_No_. It wasn't like that. I thought that putting them back could be just as bad as taking them out. That you didn't need them. That maybe you'd be _happier_ without them."

"Thinking only of my happiness, were you? I'd like to know what gives you the right to decide what's best for me."

"Same thing that gives it to you! Standing up and making a decision, because you're the only one who can. Isn't that what you said?"

"That's different."

"How?"

"I'm a Time Lord. _I _know what I'm doing."

"You're a Time Lord, yeah. You've got a _machine_ that travels in time. Does all the heavy lifting for you. How does that give you more of a right? You're better at maths than me, but you aren't any wiser. I've seen the decisions you make! Lives hang in the balance, and you flip your internal coin, and off we go. How are we different?"

It felt like that metaphorical train had derailed on him. Or maybe like each of her words had been a stone, and she'd just pummeled him with them.

"Lives in the balance, and I'm _flipping a bloody coin_. That's what you think of me."

"Yes," she said. "That's what makes you so _good_. You're not a god, you don't have it easy, but you still try to do what's best, even when you don't know what best is. You see people hurting, and you take the responsibility. That's all I was trying to do."

"It wasmychoice to make."

"But how could you? You couldn't know what was on the disc until you _knew_, and then it'd be too late."

"You could have asked."

"When did you ever ask?"

"I have," he said, turning to retrieve the data orb. "Once or twice. But asking means that you agree to abide by someone's decision, yes _or_ no. And I'm not usually willing to accept the consequences of a no."

He turned back to her, holding the faintly glowing orb. "But as you pointed out, I'm no god." He leaned forward, looking her in the eye. "You could do better," he said, leaning back against the console. "So do: ask. Tell me why, and say please."

"Your people," she said, "you know they're gone. But you don't have to feel it happening. You don't have to see it. Everything on there, it's no good. You're fine without it. _Please_, let it go. Let it stay gone."

He looked at her a moment. Then, with a flick of his wrist, he tossed the orb to her.

She reached out and caught it, her eyes wide.

"There now," he said, "that was easy, wasn't it?"

"You sure?" she asked, still looking shocked.

"Yes, but there's a catch, so listen close. You can't go an throw that just anywhere. It could be important later. You've got to put it someplace safe here, inside the TARDIS, and leave some hints, in case I need to find it later."

"I could leave a note in my knicker drawer," she suggested nervously, trying to banter.

He grinned. "Perfect! First place I'd go in a crisis."

She grinned back, looking enormously relieved. And then just stood there.

He made a shooing motion. "Go on then. Go and hide your Easter egg."

She startled a little, turned to walk away, and then turned back. "Are we okay?" she asked.

His first impulse was to tell her a happy lie. His first impulse had always been to make her happy. Instead, he gave her the truth, "We will be."

She relaxed. Her features smoothed out, but she didn't smile. She met his eyes and looked at him. Look into him? He couldn't read her expression. Caring? Relief, surely. But what else, concern? Discomfort? Worry? She looked tired, her hair was still stringy and pulled back tight, but in the TARDIS' dim green and gold lighting, she looked very special to him. Indefinable. Remote. The embodiment of some human mystique he'd only seen in their strength in the face of disaster or adversity, or at the movies. All this despite the odor of sweat and exhaustion coming off her. Or because of it.

He thought of a species that fought for whatever they believed in, even when what they believed in were various conflicting things. A people who always knew what was best, even when they couldn't be sure they knew what best was. The sort of hubris he liked 'cause it came out of a genuine desire to help and make things better, whatever the cost.

Looking into the eyes of an ape, and seeing things that shouldn't be there. Wasn't he always? Hadn't he been since the first time he'd met them? He trusted her so far. Either she was everything extraordinary he ever thought they were, or he was daft in the head.

Flip a coin.

She gave him the best smile she could--warm and hopeful--and left, carrying the remains of a hundred odd years of his life with her.


End file.
